


Right Now

by Anonymous



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Blood, Character Deaths (not Malcolm), Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Murder, Necrophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:34:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24261421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: An alternate ending to Alone Time where things go terribly wrong.Read the tags, please.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 18
Collections: Anonymous





	Right Now

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Martin's description of John, "I mean, for a man who once took his pleasure with human cadavers, he was fastidious."
> 
> This isn't terribly graphic, but it's dark and disturbing and people die (not Malcolm). The rape/non-con warning is for sex with a corpse.
> 
> You have been warned.

"Just like Martin, you love your family. It's your fatal flaw. Sacrifice will be your final trial." John says, as if the path to enlightenment has just been miraculously revealed to him. He pushes himself to his feet from where he's crouched in front of Malcolm, prepared to bestow the ultimate kindness upon him. "But don't worry, it won't be something you have to do, just something you have to endure." He slides an axe from his canvas bag of weapons, testing the heft of it in his hand before turning back to Malcolm. "I'll do the doing."

Malcolm's blood freezes in his veins as he realizes _exactly_ what Watkins plans to do to break him. He's going to go after Jessica and Ainsley. He's going to kill his family.

Malcolm tries everything he can to change John's mind. He begs, he reasons with him, he tries to relate to him so that he'll feel understood. He establishes John's abusive upbringing as the underlying reason for the urges that he feels, in the hope that John will change his course of action if he believes his impulses are not his own fault. He tries to convince him that killing his family won't sate the voices in his head.

It's all for nothing. Watkins can't be talked down.

As John opens the door to leave, Malcolm finally realizes where they are. He recognizes the sound of the subway from when he was a boy, when he and Ainsley would sit together on the floor next to a vent in his bedroom, listening to the sounds of the trains going by and pretending there was a whole other world behind the walls.

Turns out they weren't exactly wrong.

John twirls the axe with a quick and well practiced movement before resting it on his shoulder, an unhinged smile spreading wide over his face. Looking to Malcolm, he says, "There's no place like home."

Malcolm throws himself after John, a last ditch effort to stop the man from destroying his world, but the chains around his wrist wrench him back to the floor with a hard jerk. The metal slices into his wrists but he doesn't even feel it over the fresh agony of the knife wound in his side reopening.

He screams and grabs at his side, but the blood is coming even faster than it was before and he's terrified he won't survive long enough to save his family. He doesn't have the strength to apply pressure, so he rolls onto his injured side with his arm against the wound and lets gravity take care of that for him. He can feel the blood pooling beneath him, soaking into the fabric of his shirt and pants, warm and slick at first but slowly cooling and congealing as the flow of blood slows and eventually stops.

He drifts in and out of consciousness, unaware of the passage of time, until he faintly hears a wailing cry, which is abruptly — fatally — cut off. His eyes snap open at the sound.

"No, no, no," he whispers to himself, but he's too weak to move. Can barely even keep his eyes open. He's fighting the pull of unconsciousness as he hears the sounds of a struggle from the other side of the door, moving steadily closer. It takes far too long for his exhausted mind to recognize the sound of Ainsley's voice, and the door is bursting open by the time he's gathered his wits enough to lift his head.

John drags Ainsley into the room, one hand tight in her hair while his other arm is wrapped around her body, still holding tightly to the axe, which is now covered in blood.

So much blood.

It coats the head of the axe and covers John's hand as it sluggishly drips down the handle. It's splattered over John's face and what he can see of his clothes behind Ainsley's struggling form. The sharp smell of iron follows them into the room, churning Malcolm's stomach as he tries to get up. He has to close his eyes for a moment as the room spins around him when he pushes himself to his knees, knowing that fainting now will most assuredly mean Ainsley's death. When his head settles enough that he can open his eyes and really look at Ainsley, he sees that she has a head wound that's bleeding quite a bit, but looks otherwise untouched. Which means the blood on the axe…

"Sorry, little Malcolm," John grins down at him in clear opposition to the apology. "Unfortunately your mother won't be able to join this little gathering. She's, uh, spread a little thin at the moment."

Bile rises hot in Malcolm's throat as he realizes that John has already killed his mother. Ainsley's sob draws his attention from the bloody weapon and he looks over to see her sagging in John's grip, tears streaming down her face.

"H-he killed her, Mal," she slurs, a concussion evident in her speech and the way she can't seem to focus her eyes. Only now, with the way she's moved, does Bright notice the blood splatter that's darkening her clothes and covering the side of her face. Malcolm's mind automatically delves into the forensics of the spray pattern and clearly pictures John yanking the axe out of his mother's body as she lays on the floor, the force of the motion spraying droplets of blood over Ainsley where she sits slumped against a wall beside them.

Malcolm folds in half, his stomach heaving as the bile spills from his mouth, his empty stomach having nothing to expel. It's bad enough picturing it in his head, but Ainsley had a front row seat. He forces himself back up and looks to her, using every bit of willpower he has to keep his voice steady. "Are you okay?"

Her lip trembles, but she can't seem to force the words out, instead shaking her head lightly. Apparently even that is too much movement and her eyes slip closed, body going lax in John's arms. John lowers her to the ground, surprisingly tender as he lays her on her back, smoothing her hair around her head once she's settled.

"Your trial begins, little Malcolm," John says as he gets to his feet and walks over to the door, closing it and leaning the axe against the doorjam.

Malcolm doesn't think he can possibly feel worse, but when John reaches into his pocket and pulls out his switchblade, it suddenly feels like his chest is being crushed. He can't breathe.

He shakes his head, mouth forming around the words, but it's not until John is standing above Ainsley that he finally finds the air to beg for his sister's life.

"Don't do this! Please John, I'll do whatever you want me to, just please don't hurt her." Now that he's found his breath, he can't slow it down. He's veering towards hyperventilating as John kneels down beside Ainsley, and the room is beginning to tilt. "Please. Please, John. Ainsley isn't part of your mission. You don't want to hurt her."

"Sometimes," John says, tapping the blade against his lips, "sacrifices need to be made. Her death will not be in vain, Malcolm, because it will set you on your true path."

"No," Malcolm sobs, shuffling forward on his knees as the room shifts around him, vision going dim as he moves.

"You'll see," John says. He brings the blade down to Ainsley's throat and, with one quick jerk of his hand, slits her throat open. Mercifully, she doesn't wake up as the blood gushes from the wound that stretches from one side of her throat to the other, pumping in waves in time with her heartbeat.

Malcolm doesn't even feel it when he hits the ground, his body and mind giving out at the same time.

He swims to the surface of consciousness on and off over the next hour, catching glimpses of John's movements. He has a vivid memory of John looking down at the blood — on the floor, the knife, his hands, Ainsley's body — with distaste; vaguely recalls him hauling in a bucket of soapy water; remembers fighting against his restraints until his wrists were scraped raw and bleeding, as he watched John strip Ainsley down and start to wash away the blood; remembers being left alone with the body of his baby sister as John took all the soiled evidence from the room.

At that point, he cried harder than he'd ever cried before. Great heaving sobs that left his chest aching and his throat chafed and sore. Looking at her laying there, naked, neck wound gaping open, knowing that he'd failed her — it was too much. He curled up on the floor and waited to die.

There was nothing left to live for anyways.

He wakes, entirely disoriented, to the sound of grunts and low groans. It takes him nearly a minute to remember where he is, his memory floating back in slivers.

Finding Shannon's body.

John taking him.

The knife plunging into his body.

The axe, stained with his mother's blood.

John slitting Ainsley's throat.

His head jerks up as the last memory worms its way to the forefront of his mind. He finds John propped over Ainsley, his forearms and knees supporting his body weight as he thrusts into her unresisting body.

A rage like he's never felt before tints Malcolm's vision, his world going red as he screams, "Get off of her, you sick fucker!"

The outburst clearly startles the man, and he slips out of his sister's body as he pulls back at the sound of Malcolm's ire. John is still fully dressed, had only bothered to undo his fly before he violated Ainsley's body, and he moves to tuck himself back into his pants before he hesitates and strokes himself instead.

"Don't worry," he grumbles, "she doesn't mind."

As John lines himself back up and gives a quick thrust of his hips, Malcolm notices that, with John moving things to clean the blood, the bag of John's tools is close enough for him to reach the handle of a small hammer. John's attention is fully focused on his pleasure, ignoring Malcolm completely, and Malcolm knows it may be his only opportunity. It takes everything in his power not to scream at the man who is desecrating his sister, instead, quietly reaching for the hammer and slamming it down on his own hand before he can even think it through.

He can't help the wail that bursts from the deepest reaches of his lungs, and John's head snaps up as the howl bounces off the walls of the small room. It takes John nearly three seconds to process what's happening, and it's all the lead that Malcolm needs.

He slides the cuff over his broken hand and shoves himself to his feet before John has even pulled out. Catching sight of the newly cleaned axe propped up against the wall, he stumbles over and wraps both hands around the handle in a firm, unforgiving grip. By the time John gets to his feet and rushes towards Malcolm, the rage has completely consumed him. He doesn't even hesitate as he spins around and swings the axe, the blade sinking deep into John's chest.

The reverberations — as the blade breaks through bone with a muted crack — shake through Malcolm's arms, giving him a satisfaction that will haunt him for the rest of his life, wondering if he's more like his father than he ever thought. Malcolm tries to pull the blade out, ready to strike again (and again, and again, and again), but he lacks the strength to free it from where it's embedded so deeply in bone and muscle and organs.

John looks down in shock, eyes bulging from his face, but doesn't make a sound as he crumples to the ground.

Malcolm will find out later that the tip of the axe nicked John's heart while the bulk of the blade cut clear through his lungs. But that doesn't come until after the police invade his house, until the coroners take away the body of his sister and what's left of his mother, until Gil wraps him in his arms and leads him to an ambulance, until Edrisa can perform the autopsy.

Right now, Malcolm stands motionless above John's body as he bleeds out on the floor, listening for his last rasping breath. It takes an unexpectedly short amount of time.

Malcolm's only regret is that he didn't suffer more.


End file.
